9. What She Deserves
WHAT SHE DESERVES
Cecily had a new coat.
It was long and red with silver buttons and blue trim, certainly more expensive than she would have ever been able to afford. She felt positively resplendent in it, as though she wore one of the fine silk gowns she imagined in her little home each night.
She had taken it from the merchant ship before Copson sank it, so she didn’t feel badly that it was stolen.
In fact, she felt rather light as the day faded into evening.
There was no longer tension on the Fortuna Royale, and Cecily carried herself with surefooted confidence, as though what had transpired with Morgyn was of little consequence to her.
Despite Copson’s fine, she was oddly relieved.
More so than she had expected. Even if she’d been a little more dramatic than necessary, the truth of what she’d said and done remained—she was a mass murderer, and she’d kill again if she had to, even though she dreaded the day she’d soak her hands in more blood.
As a relaxed evening fell into peaceful night, Cecily stood alone behind the foremast to watch the stars emerge, her thoughts pulling toward her father.
She usually tried not to think of him, fearful of tainting his memory with all that had happened since he’d passed—he would have died all over again had he known what became of her.
And now that Copson had brought him to the forefront of her mind, grief began to seep through a crack in her chest.
She had never fully faced it and still wasn’t ready to, so she floated on the surface of those feelings as a silent tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t really crying, but there was pain in there—so much pain she wouldn’t dare touch.
Someday. She’d hold it all tenderly someday, but for now she was not tender, so the far edges of her grief ran silently from one eye with little fanfare.
Bootsteps sounded over the deck, and she knew it was Jack before he spoke.
“Cold, Cecily?”
It didn’t sound like a taunt, but it most certainly was. He leaned against the mast, bracing his arm above her head. His coat hung open, exposing the litany of knives still decked to his body.
Armed to the teeth.
She shook her head, ignoring the thought. “Not in the slightest,” she answered, not bothering to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. “I have this new coat.”
“Red suits you.”
“I prefer purple, but red is fine.”
He shifted on his feet, the hilts in his vest glinting in the moonlight. “So who were these men you killed?” His tone was casual as though he spoke about the sky or the sea, but he couldn’t fully conceal his interest—or, she suspected, he didn’t intend to hide it.
She scrubbed her hand under her nose. “Society snobs. You wouldn’t know them.”
His sky-blue eyes were steady on her face, his fair hair blowing in the breeze. “You never answered when I asked if your victims deserved it.” The barest hint of annoyance glinted through his words like an iron thread. “Was it too hard to damn them?”
“I wasn’t sure.” It was shameful, really—both that she had murdered and was capable of feeling bad about it in spite of the circumstances.
His voice came sharper, like he spoke to a verifiable idiot. “Cecily.”
“Well, I wasn’t in my right mind, and everyone else seemed to believe I was wrong.” She held his gaze, that single drying tear cold on her cheek. “I’m still not in my right mind. Who’s to say?”
“I say. They deserved it.”
“They didn’t touch me.”
She didn’t know if she was justifying their innocence or why. Maybe—and this was a very small maybe—she wanted to hear someone defend her. Anyone, really, even a handsome, wicked pirate who was no better than she was.
She had hardly noticed herself beginning to trust Jack. She hated him, of course, but she always knew what to expect with him to the point of predictability. He was consistent in a way only Hester had been, and his calculated conniving was easy to match with her own.
Yes, she despised him, but she was also beginning to feel something else that wasn’t completely dark and dreadful.
“Don’t defend them,” he said, as though he’d heard her thoughts. “Lord, Cecily, have you lost your heart for everything including yourself?”
Her face pinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re nineteen. You’ve barely lived. It’s too soon to act like you deserve nothing.”
She folded her arms, shielding herself from all he said. “I deserve things.”
“Like what? Tell me one thing.”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Death was her first thought, but that was more out of habit than true belief. Then she thought of her house—but she didn’t think she deserved it. She wanted it and would have it, but deserving was another thing entirely.
She didn’t know what she was worthy of anymore, but she couldn’t admit that to Jack. Sinking against the mast, she rubbed her arms. “This coat.”
“Do you think you deserved it? Or did you take something you liked because you were robbing the ship anyway?”
She rolled her eyes. “God, Jack.”
He grinned. “I like being right, and I’m right about you.”
“You make me cold,” she said. “Frigid, actually.”
Chuckling, Jack pushed away from the mast. “I hear there’s a bed that might warm you.”
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, indignation dousing any tender feelings she maybe might have had for him. “I only said that because they were calling me your—” She huffed. “Morgyn provoked me earlier. I had to take her satisfaction.”
“Today on the main deck?” His brow furrowed. “You looked to be having a happy conversation.”
Her jaw hung. “Are you serious?”
“You were smiling?”
“I was telling her to go to hell.” She turned on him. “Maybe I should tell you the same. You took ideas from her to torture me.”
No chagrin. No apology. Not even a blink. Only, “Does that bother you?”
She grimaced. “Bother me? No, nothing bothers me in the slightest. I’m pleased all the time with absolutely everything.”
“I took her suggestion because I wondered what her goal was,” he said.
“And if she tried to provoke you, I wanted to know if you would bear it or retaliate. Despite all we do for order and discipline, the crew has their own social order—and I know prison does too. The captain and I have been waiting for it to fall into place.” He leaned closer.
“You were waiting for that moment on the merchant ship. You knew it was coming, and you were ready.”
Cecily gave a wry grin. “Did you think I’d kill her?”
“Kill her or fight her, maybe both. I’m glad you didn’t. I’ve grown mildly attached to your insidiousness. It amuses me, and it would’ve almost been a shame to kill you.”
“Kind of you to say,” she said woodenly. “I suppose I don’t like you enough to grant you the opportunity. But maybe once I’m fond of you, I’ll let you have a go at my neck.”
Jack laughed, that beautiful smile from earlier gracing his face. This time, she let herself stare.
“There are so many things I could do with a neck like yours,” he murmured. “You may find I’m rather skilled.” Heat bloomed through her lower belly as his voice lowered. “Wringing, breaking, slitting, strangling.”
She wondered if she could punch him in the throat without getting fined again. Maybe that would cool the burning in her blood. But then he lifted his hand and presented a dagger.
Her eyes locked on it. The worn leather sheath spanned the width of his palm, the thread along its edge aged but sturdy. Though she couldn’t see the short blade, the handle was wood, smooth and polished from years of use.
“I will let you have this so long as you keep it hidden,” Jack said.
She resisted a primal urge to grab it. “Why?”
“Let’s call it another truce. You’ve drawn enough attention. Any more will complicate your place on this crew, and that will be very exasperating for me.”
Especially after today, setting herself apart from the others wasn’t wise. If this was a trade for her cooperation, she’d accept it.
She nodded, eager to hold the blade against her chest like it was her own child. She took the handle, but Jack’s hand wrapped around the sheath, keeping it between them.
“Hide it,” he said again. “Sleep below deck.” He released the knife, and she slipped it into her pocket. “Don’t make me regret this. If you get caught, I’ll deny I ever gave it to you.”
“I won’t get caught.” To her surprise, she smiled. A real smile, an actual grin that wasn’t menacing or mocking. It was true happiness—raw, excited, hopeful gladness that rose through her middle and told her life is good and maybe it will keep being good.
Jack’s gaze dropped to her lips before returning to her eyes. She couldn’t help herself as she beamed at him, her hand wrapped around the knife in her pocket. She might have even giggled, but she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth before it could burst from her lips.
Armed to the teeth.
Her smile dimmed…
My girl.
…and disappeared altogether. Her heart raced and her stomach rolled, and she didn’t know why it was suddenly harder to breathe or why her chest ached.
“I watched you fight today,” Jack said. “You’re very good with a sword.”
“So are you,” she replied automatically, prodding every corner of her mind to tell her why this man was making her feel the way she did, or if it was simply a new flavor of bitter hatred.
The edge of his mouth lifted. “You think so?”
It was too much levity—the truce was too long. She lifted one shoulder. “Good enough.” His fighting was perfect, as a matter of fact, and she disliked thinking of it now as it increased the pressure behind her ribs.
“I have some notes for you as well,” he said.
“I’ll be glad to hear them.” She ripped her eyes from his lips when she realized she was staring at his smirk. Stepping back, she braced herself against the mast. “Why were you watching?”
The longer Jack stood there, the more his presence smothered the chill in her veins.
“Because you’re defiant and cunning, and any mistake you made would be on my head.
I had to watch you.” He drew in a slow breath.
“And I saw Hester was about to die and no one else seemed to notice. Except for you.”
She folded her arms, grumbling, “Someone should have been there for her.”
“Greyson feels awful.”
“He should. Everyone should. It’s a miracle so many untrained idiots didn’t kill themselves with their own swords.”
“I had already warned the captain about the same thing you told me. I saw it too, you know, but he didn’t listen. My hands were tied.” His next words came slower, as though he were taking time to add weight to each one. “But thankfully you were there.”
She chanced a glance at him, wondering how he could send warmth skating over her skin with his voice alone. “Are you mocking me?” She genuinely couldn’t tell.
He shook his head then jerked his chin at her pocket, speaking softly, like they were friends sharing a secret. “Truce, remember?”
“I didn’t know it would last so long.”
He was still the cutting, terrible man he’d always been, but now there was a glimmer of something—like kindness or camaraderie. “I thought a knife might buy me more time than a coin. I intended it to.”
After a too-long moment, she caught her breath and looked ahead.
The breeze wasn’t enough to cool the heat in her cheeks, and her beautiful coat suddenly felt much too warm—actually warm when she had been frozen for nearly a year.
“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy our verbal sparring, Jack.
How else would we amuse ourselves while everyone else is off making love and merry? ”
“I’m not sure. But I’m not opposed to finding out.” With that, he pushed away from the mast and crossed toward the door leading to the stairs below deck. The night chill swept into her coat, dragging icy fingers over her skin.
Cecily slid around the side of the mast to watch him go, heart in her throat. “Jack.”
She had no idea what to say when he turned to look at her—only that she was shocked and burning from the inside out.
So she stared at him, wondering why the tension between them felt so different tonight.
It was still there, still fraught and terrible, but now there was a warmth that she was very tempted to bask in.
Jack filled the silence for her. “Are you going to tell me the offer’s still open?” He spoke with his usual sarcasm, but now there was an undercurrent of friendly teasing. “My, what a truce.”
She anchored one hand against the mast, as though it would steady whatever swirled inside her. “I didn’t mean it. What I said earlier. What I offered.”
He smirked. “I know.”
Panic crested as he turned to leave. The warmth inside her hadn’t faded, and she wanted to keep hold of it because it felt good. Safe. Comforting.
So words burst from her—truthful ones she never would have said if she’d had time to think. They ripped from her putrid little heart, flinging themselves into the night like a desperate offering for just one more moment of whatever it was that made her feel not so much like a beast.
“But even if I had meant it, do you think—” Oh no. “—do you think you’d deserve me?”
Oh God. Oh God, it sounded like an offer, but it wasn’t. It was desperation, a fear she’d hidden deep within the dark cellar of her little home.
With Oliver, she had never wondered if she was good enough.
Now, after everything, was she worthy of being deserved?
She wanted to be, but she wasn’t sure if a pirate was the best person to ask.
If he said he did deserve her, if she was worthy of being a sinful pirate’s prize, would that mean she’d be a better man’s punishment?
And to ask Jack of all people. She shouldn’t care what he thought or what it would say about her if he answered one way or another.
But here she was, hardly daring to breathe because she wanted to know how he judged her, simply because he was as smart and wicked as she, and he’d been watching, seeing everything that happened on his ship in a way that others didn’t.
And for some reason, despite these past days, she trusted him, and she trusted his judgment.
And she was afraid of it.
He regarded her for a long moment. She did the same, searching for some subtle answer for what he’d done to her to make her feel and think this way. Any answer would suffice—anything to release the tension in her chest.
But all he said was, “Goodnight, Cecily.”